


Addiction

by lockedin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adrenaline, Alternate Universe, No Porn, No Sex, No Smut, Prostitute John, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:51:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being invalided home from Afghanistan, John turns to prostitution. For almost a year, he's lived believing he's a sex addict, and this is his way of coping. But when an unusual client shows up--not for sex, but for information--John's life becomes even more interesting than that of a Soho prostitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Addiction

**Author's Note:**

> idfk how prostitution works LIBERTIES TAKEN yadda yadda
> 
> enjoy the word vomit

In the shadows of poor streetlamps, in the more questionable side streets of Soho, John’s client had appeared all straight lines—tall, sharp cheekbones, long legs. The exception had been the mop of curls on top of his head and the scarf wound around his neck.

In the light of the hotel room, all of these were enhanced rather than minimised. The curls were dark brown, and the previously shadowed eyes were bright silver. The man was, to put it simply, stunning. Stunning enough that John had to check himself, which he rarely had to do with his male clients. Usually it was all games and façade, once the transaction had been made, until he was through fucking them or they him.

The man hadn’t so much as shucked the heavy wool Belstaff or the navy blue scarf or the leather gloves. He was rifling in his pockets and pulled out the telltale envelope. Business first. John liked that. No pretence of what they were here for. It made things easier.

“I’ll pay you,” he said, the baritone as smooth as it had been when he and John had exchanged a few whispers outside. “But I won’t sleep with you.”

John blinked rapidly. “Erm, what?”

“I need information. But as I’m keeping you from potential clientele, it only seems fair to pay you. Is this sufficient?” He held up a folded fifty between his index and middle fingers.

John resisted the urge to take it and concede to whatever questions the man had to ask. An hour off for the evening was a nice prospect. Instead he rolled his shoulders back and crossed his arms. “What kind of information?”

There was a flash of a smile before the man pocketed his note. “You are acquainted with Edward Lockhart?”

“Eddie? Sure. Had a few pints with him in the past.” His bad shoulder was beginning to ache, but he’d pushed through it plenty of times in the past. Of course, he was usually preoccupied with something more physical at the time.

“You’re free to relax, John.”

“Huh?”

“It’s clear your shoulder is causing you discomfort. I’m sure your defensive stance is more habitual than intentional, remnants—like your injured shoulder—from your time in the service.”

John started to gape, but caught himself and snapped his jaw shut. “How could you possibly- Shit. You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

“Would an officer offer you fifty quid for a chat about your colleague?” There it was again, that briefest flash of a smile. Something both condescending and encouraging.

After a moment, John relaxed his stance and sat on the edge of the unused bed. He rolled his shoulder while he picked the conversation back up. “Alright, what about Eddie?”

“Were you aware that he has a family? Wife, three children-”

“Yeah. He isn’t quiet about it after he’s had a couple. Look, whatever it is you’re after, Eddie’s a good guy. He’s pretty torn about what he does.”

“I’m sure. However, he’s also a suspect in a murder. Although, I say suspect.”

“Fuck. You really are a cop.”

“No, although I do occasionally assist the incompetent officers of the Metropolitan Police when they are out of their depth, which is always.”

John might have laughed if it weren’t for the gravity of the situation. “Eddie isn’t a killer.”

The man arched one eyebrow. “We’re all killers, John. It just takes the right trigger.”

“I’m not telling you were Eddie is, if that’s what you want.”

“On the contrary, I know where he is now. I do, however, want to know where he was three nights ago at two-seventeen in the morning.”

“Not with me.” John started to shrug, but he stopped halfway through the motion. “Oh.”

“Yes. As you might have gathered, Eddie informed the police that you were his alibi. Well, not you by name. He didn’t want to incriminate you for anything. But it was fairly easy to deduce who he meant. ‘Real soldier type’ usually applies to clients, not workers.” He pulled out the fifty and set it on the bed next to John. “Your time is appreciated.”

John looked at the fifty and then at the man whose back now faced him. “I’m going to get called into court, aren’t I?”

“It’s possible.”

“Do I at least get the name of the man who’s just fucked me over in the least pleasant way?”

He looked over his shoulder and considered John for a moment. It felt like the man was reading his very soul. “Sherlock Holmes.”

When the door was closed, John picked up the fifty and tucked it away in one of the convenient hidden pockets his fatigues provided. Well, an hour off was still an hour off.

 

The summer heat had John stripped out of his jacket. He might have had to survive Afghanistan in full gear, but he wasn’t about to stand around London’s humid nights in it if he could avoid it. As it turned out, the look of a soldier already partly undressed seemed to attract more clients than the full getup. He had a suspicion that the visibility of the dog tags helped.

Eddie was incarcerated for involuntary manslaughter. Even though John barely knew the guy—sure, they’d shared a few drinks, but there hadn’t been any real bonding there—he felt guiltier than he should have about ruining the guy’s alibi. In the end, he sent fifty quid anonymously to his family. It seemed a stupid gesture, but it relieved some of the weight.

Two months after the whole ordeal, he found himself face-to-face with a familiar pair of cheekbones and silver irises. He obliged without even the slightest exchange. It wasn’t the prospect of another easy hour of earnings—John’s conscience hadn’t allowed that—but something else. John found the man fascinating, even if they’d only talked for less than half an hour.

“So, are we going to fuck this time?” John said, trying for a bit of cheek, once they were in the hotel room. It was a different hotel, but that never mattered.

“Not unless you’re desperate,” Sherlock replied rather airily.

“I’ve had two clients tonight already. I’m pretty satiated.”

“Which is curious, as you are under the delusion that you’re a sex addict.”

John stared dumbly for a moment. “Alright, so you’re stalking me now?”

“No.” This time, Sherlock did shed his coat—which John couldn’t believe he was wearing to begin with in this weather—and his gloves. He had apparently opted out of the scarf that evening. Beneath the Belstaff, Sherlock was dressed in a black jacket and a black dress shirt that was too tight across his torso. He sat down on the bed with an unnatural ease that no human should possess. He crossed his legs and leaned back on his hands. “You’re not addicted to sex, though.”

John leaned against the wall next to the bed. “I think I know myself better than some stranger.”

Sherlock grinned. It wasn’t the same type of smile he’d shown briefly on their first encounter, but the look was still a good one. “Hardly.”

“Right, so my professional psychiatrist has misdiagnosed me?”

“Your psychiatrist that’s trained to deal with veterans suffering from PTSD, not sex workers. And part of that misdiagnosis is your own doing, since, when you finally brought it up with her, you had already self-diagnosed. Naturally, what you told her shaped around this preformed misconception, though probably not consciously. No, John, your addiction is much more interesting.”

John shook his head, but he took the bait anyway. “Which is?”

“Adrenaline. Risk. Invalided home from Afghanistan at the height of your career as an army surgeon must have been like going cold turkey. Down the line, you found a few cheap shags. It was exciting enough to begin with, and so you decided to give the other side of the bargain a go. Oh, it worked for a few months, I’m sure, but how long have you been back in London now? Six months?”

“Ten.”

“Ah. Well, your stamina for the dull and mundane is more stalwart than mine.”

“Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective.”

“Consulting- That’s not even a real profession.”

“Not before I invented it, no.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose, stifling the smile trying to form on his lips. This man was, if nothing else, interesting. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“Some think so.”

“Add one more to the list.”

Sherlock stood, and they were immediately put into close proximity. “What if I could promise you a different life? It would never be dull, often dangerous, and you could keep your clothes on.”

At this distance, John could smell the man. Tobacco, chemicals, and some faint remnants of shampoo or soap. John looked up from the strained buttons of the dress shirt to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Sherlock Holmes-”

“‘Consulting detective.’”

“The only one in the world.” And there was that smile again. Superior but somehow encouraging. It was daring John to take his offer.

“That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Oh, John, if I told you everything, it would make this whole offer less exciting, don’t you agree?”

John just raised a brow to match his.

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days.”

“Those the worst things you do?”

“There’s a spare room in my flat. Move in and find out for yourself.”

Somewhere along the line, their voices had lowered to near whispers. John sucked in a deep breath and let it out sharply. “You could be a rapist, or a killer yourself.”

“I could be.”

“How did you know all that stuff about me?”

“Your hands.” Sherlock grabbed John’s hands and lifted them. His touch was cool. Not sickly. More like the coolness of metal. “Surgeon’s hands. But you’re not a surgeon, not actively, not anymore. Your clothes.” He dropped John’s hands and briefly flitted his hands across the camo hugging John’s hips. But then he picked up the dog tags. “Not a costume. Honest to goodness desert camouflage, government issued. And there are wear marks—especially on that coat—that show it’s truly seen actual desert conditions. Your shoulder.” He dropped the tags and took John’s bad shoulder in a light grip, rubbing his thumb across the exact spot of the scar. “The way you held it made it clear it had been injured in the past, and quite seriously. Did you know, the first night we met, there was a weather front coming through? Most likely the cause for the particular discomfort that evening. Shrapnel?”

“Shot,” John breathed. He could hear his own blood pumping headily through him.

“Fascinating. So you were quite near the front line.”

John managed to nod, even though Sherlock made it sound more like a statement, an observation, than a question.

“As for your phantom sex addiction.” Sherlock leaned close so his lips were millimetres from John’s ear. He let his warm breath ghost across John’s skin before whispering, “All this intimacy and touching—” the words sounded downright sinful in that voice, that tone “—and not the slightest bit of an erection.” He leaned back, opening the space between them again, allowing John to breathe. He smiled, silver eyes on fire with barely subdued excitement. “But if I’m wrong about that, then I can offer you all the sex our refractory periods will allow.” He slipped out from the closed space and picked up his coat and gloves. “My address is 221B Baker Street. Come by tomorrow evening before you go to work. Say, seven o’clock?”

John wasn’t sure how long he stood there after Sherlock left. When he had some wits about him, he palmed himself gently through is trousers, as if he already didn’t know. Sure enough, he was as flaccid as a preadolescent.

But it was the most alive he had felt since the moment the bullet ripped through his shoulder.


End file.
